


Dreams of Spring

by vivilove



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Universe, Drabble Collection, F/M, In some of these, Jonsa babies - Freeform, Love, Marriage, Post Season 7, Post-Series Ficlets, Season 8 Ficlets, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-01-18 00:12:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 16,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12376980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/pseuds/vivilove
Summary: A collection of drabbles/scenes centered around Jon & Sansa's relationship in Season 8 and Post Series.  Some will be rated mature or explicit.





	1. The Only Home He Knows

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have lots of thoughts about Jonsa in Season 8 that I just need to get out of my head and I'm posting them here. I'll go ahead and lay this out for you as well...I believe Jon and Sansa will be married by series end (and in my opinion it will be a loving marriage even if politics play into it coming about). And, I don't believe Jon was ever 'in love' with Daenerys. Other characters may get mentioned but this is truly Jonsa centered.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This first ficlet is set once Jon learns the truth of his parentage from Bran. He's quite emo in it...lol.

Hollow, he felt. Crumbled and broken, he was.

All his life, this place had been home. And now, it was the only home he knew.

_It’s not mine though._

Castle Black had been like home for a time. Sam, Grenn, Pyp and Edd. The Old Bear and Maester Aemon. Uncle Benjen…

It had felt like a family once. Even while his heart ached for every betrayal and tragedy the Starks suffered, Jon thought he could rely on his brothers in the Watch to see him through.

That was before though…before the knives in the dark. And then there was nothing but the dark.

He thought on that feeling of emptiness, the one that had consumed him after his brothers had stabbed him to death and Death had spit him back out.

What had brought him back? What had given his life meaning again?

Sansa, of course.

A lost and wounded girl seeking her brother and the safety he represented. She’d had no idea how lost and wounded he was, too.

Did she know it? Did she realize how he’d given up, how close he was to letting despair swallow him whole before she came? Before she ran to him, filling his arms and giving him purpose once more?

Did she have even the slightest inkling that every step he had made, every path he had tread from the day she arrived at Castle Black had been about seeing her safely home, returning her to her rightful place?

 _Perhaps I should’ve told her plainly but I have never been all that gifted with words_.

“We must speak,” Bran had said within hours of his return. Such a simple request. Not one he would ever refuse his brother.

But now…how Jon wished he could’ve been at least a bit prepared.

 _Mother_. All his life, he’d wondered about her, wondered who she’d been and why Father had refused to speak of her. Not once had he suspected the truth of her identity.

The truth at last. One he’d never suspected. A miserable homecoming made more miserable by far.

The fire danced and popped before his eyes where he sat huddled in his cloak, unseeing. His chambers were silent. Should they be his chambers still? Did he belong here at all?

_Where will I go?_

A knock on the door. He did not mean to respond but his voice must’ve disobeyed him for he heard a voice call, “Come in.” His own voice. _I do not know myself at all_ , he thought bitterly.

He did not turn away from the fire. His back was to whoever had entered. He should’ve known it’d be her. The gods seemed to enjoy his misery.

“I have seen to it that Queen Daenerys and her companions have been given suitable chambers,” she said in a firm, steady voice that did nothing to hide her displeasure. She would likely never be pleased to be in his presence again.

(silence)

“Her armies are making camp outside the castle walls,” she said next, that same tone.

(silence)

He could not look at her. He could not speak. Within his chest, his heart twisted painfully.

“She came looking for you earlier…in my chambers,” Sansa said in a slightly different tone. It was a half-way playful tone that did not hide the fact that she was not one bit amused. “Apparently, she was under the impression they were yours.”

He maintained his silence but now his lip curled and he struggled…and failed…to suppress his grimace of distaste.

_I hope the gods enjoyed their laugh. I found no joy in any of it._

“Is there some other task you require of me, my lord?” she asked now, no longer disguising her hurt.

How cold she said those words…my lord. No blade had cut him deeper.

And now, his silence was costing him dearly. A wail was rising in his throat, his heart could not stand this pain much longer. He swallowed his wail mercilessly though. He would not seek Sansa’s pity. He would not.

_Let it die. Just let my heart die now. Nothing could be worse than this pain. Let her hate me. She will when she learns the truth._

A huff and a sigh from behind him.

“Have you nothing to say to me, Jon? Will you not even look at me?” she asked, her voice cracking at last as the underlying pain bubbled forth.

Her voice shook with heartache and disappointment. Things he’d done to her…all because he’d imagined he was protecting her from all those threats from the North and the South.  He'd hurt her...the last thing he ever wanted to do. 

The pain he’d felt a minute ago, that he’d foolishly believed could not be matched, was tripled in a heartbeat.

“I’ll leave you be then,” she said, choking back an angry sob.

Her hand must’ve reached the door but she didn’t manage to open it before the rushing roar of blood pounding in his ears, the searing pain in his chest as he tried to draw breath, the keening agony of having one’s heart ripped in two could not be contained any longer.

“Sansa,” he croaked like a broken man. _I am a broken man_.

Tears fell at last and he turned his head towards her. Her own teary blue eyes met his dark ones. However, the pain and anger in hers melted away in an instant.

“Jon? Are you hurt?” she asked with all the love in the world pouring forth from her pure soul. “Are you ill?” she asked with that gentleness of a mother or _the_ Mother.

She paced over to where he sat before the fire. His eyes tracked her movements. She stood before him, tall and regal. Her auburn hair highlighted by the fire that was now at her back.

A vision, she was. A dream…something radiant and good that he felt unworthy of.

“Jon?” she prompted again, staring at him intently, her delicate hands clasped in front of her. “Are you hurt or ill?”

“Both…and neither,” he whispered as his eyes passed from her hands to her breasts before lifting back up to meet her gaze.

“Shall I fetch the maester?” she asked, already turning to go.

“No!” he answered forcefully, his hand darting out quick as a snake to grasp her wrist. “Don’t leave me,” he begged.

Kind. Sansa was kind despite all that she’d endured, despite all the ways the world had mistreated her, despite all the ways he feared he would fail her.

Those cursed sobs that he’d tried so hard to suppress, that had filled his chest and tore holes in his heart would not be contained any longer. His face crumpled like a child’s. He sobbed like a wounded boy, burying his face in his sister’s chest. _My cousin_.

She hesitated only briefly before she wrapped her arms around him, winding her fingers through his hair. She shushed him and sighed his name. He held her tighter and muttered nonsense into her bosom. It didn’t matter. He could say it all later. For now, he sought comfort and Sansa gave it…as only Sansa could. She was the only home he knew.


	2. Good Morning...Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Jon and Sansa are wed.
> 
> This one is rated mature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another drabble for this collection. I'm skipping around in time on these but fear not...I will get around to writing about how they get from the parentage reveal to the marriage bed. I just wanted to share something fluffier today.

The fire had died down in the night like usual and the winter wind howled outside her chambers seeking its way in to the already chilly room.

But this morning, Sansa was not cold when she woke. She was quite warm in fact. And as she felt the glide of her bed furs against her skin, she realized she was unclothed, not even wearing her small clothes. Something warm and solid lay pressed against her back…another person.

Her groggy mind tried to reconcile this novel discovery with reality when she felt the soft press of a kiss on her shoulder and the scrape of a beard across the flesh there. A callused hand lay upon her bare hip but its touch was gentle.

Her heart fluttered in momentary panic until her mind cleared away its cobwebs and whispered, _Jon_.

He’d felt her tense beneath his touch and he paused, not wishing to distress her or force himself upon her. He’d fought so hard to be gentle last night and she had seemed to enjoy everything they had done but now he worried.

Just as he started to apologize for disturbing her rest though, he felt her body relax and she arched her back with a cat-like stretch. Her arse came to rest against his manhood, putting all manner of notions in his head. He felt himself hardening at once and hoped she would not mind that.

Sansa’s cheeks flamed when she realized what her bare bottom was pressed against and she felt a delicious thrill of wickedness to be here with Jon this way.

The night before came back to mind, his dear initial hesitancy to do anything at all for fear of bringing back unpleasant memories for her. But her insistence upon a consummation had swayed him at last as she knew it would.

With his hands and his mouth, and his eyes gazing at her all the while…he’d loved her so completely in her bed. _Our bed_.

By the time he finally entered her, she’d been writhing quite wantonly with need. Her cheeks grew hotter at the memory and she felt a stirring ache between her legs at the thoughts of enjoying that again.

Jon scooted his hips back a touch. His hard cock was now straining forcefully against her cheeks and he didn’t wish to bruise her tender flesh with his evident ardor. He returned to chastely kissing her shoulder and back as he’d been doing before she woke. His lips danced across the pale, silky skin and he relished the smell and taste of Sweet Sansa...his wife.

The hand on her hip started to caress her, up and down. From her hip, he traced her rib cage before stopping just below her breast. Then, he’d go back down to her hip again. She remembered his hands and mouth on her breasts last night. She wanted his hands there again. _And then perhaps his mouth_.

He wanted her. Gods, how he wanted her again. But what would Sansa think him wanting her again this morning after all they’d done last night. She was a lady. She’d suffered much in her marriage bed with her previous husband. Jon didn’t want to push her, didn’t want her to think he’d be constantly forcing himself upon her.

That hesitancy of his was borne of a desire to protect her still, she knew. Just as he grew savage at the thought of any other man dishonoring her, abusing her…or loving her, he worried over being too forward with her himself.

It was not a lack of desire for her as she had feared for a brief time. It was a fear of losing control. She did not fear that though. He was no animal. He was as far from the beast she’d been married to previously as any person could possibly be. But Sansa would need to help him past that sweet but infuriating urge to protect her from everything.

“ _Mmmm_ …” she yawned in a sultry tone, “I had the sweetest dream.”

 _Gods, help me_ , Jon thought desperately as she arched her back again. Her arse was pressed against him once more and there was no disguising his arousal.

“Good morning…wife,” he said tentatively, his voice low and gravelly from lack of use.

“Good morning, husband,” she said sweetly though her own voice was husky and deep this early in the morning.

He tried inching away again but was distracted when Sansa put her hand atop the one he had resting on her hip. He thought perhaps she meant to move it away, move it off her. Instead, she moved it to her breast. He cupped her breast in wonder as she jutted her arse back into him again. His cock protested this torment and ached to be inside her.

“ _Mmmm_ …” she hummed again.

She raised a hip and subtly parted her legs. His manhood slipped between them. He was nestled against her folds as her hips moved once or twice to settle him there. His warm, hard length was stirring that ache and promising to fulfill it.

This was an exquisite new form of torture, he was certain as her legs pressed back together again with his cock between them. It was wet and hot down there between Sansa’s legs.

Perhaps he still had much to learn of women. He did not claim to be any great expert. But Jon was far from stupid.

“What was this dream of yours, wife?” he asked huskily as his hand began to play with her lovely, firm teat.

He felt her nipple stiffen at his touch. He bucked his hips once…twice. He was nestled between her legs but soon he’d slip inside her and feel that warmth surround him. He could hardly wait.

She looked over her shoulder at him, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. He swept her long auburn hair away from her face with his free hand.

Her hand reached back and grasped his arse, pulling herself more snuggly against him. Then, she moved the hand at her breast down between her legs where her little bud of pleasure was. She knew he would bring her to that delightful peak he'd shown her last night in no time. She could hardly wait.

“I could show you…if you like,” she whispered, a sweet blush forming on her cheeks.

His lady wife…blushing like a maid as she experimented and teased. How dear she was to him.

“Aye. Please, show me, my dear wife,” he rasped before leaning forward to capture her sweet lips for a kiss.


	3. No One Will Ever Marry Me for Love (You're Wrong)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa proposes a solution to the news of Jon's parentage.
> 
> A short drabble and I've got different head canon for this so there may be other drabbles with this same theme. Also, I'd like for Sansa to be the one to initiate a first kiss but in this piece, Jon needed to make that first move.

An hour or three had passed by his fire with only the low murmur of their voices accompanying the pop and snap of the flames. The day had grown dark and Jon had neglected any duties and avoided everyone else since his talk with Bran. He did not care. Sansa was here and his pain was lessened by half by her gentle, steady presence.

Her quick mind was at work like always though. Who should be told? No one just yet. What did this mean? Nothing, she said.

“You are still a Stark.”

“I never was,” he argued.

“Your last name makes no matter,” she said. “Lyanna Stark was your mother and Ned Stark raised you as his son. You are as much a Stark as I am.”

“The lords won’t see it that way.”

“No, but together...we will sway them,” she said enigmatically.

Their talk continued and it was Arya that found them still closeted together after nightfall. When Sansa had shared his news, as he did not have the heart at present, she’d grown just as fierce in her resolution that he was the same as he had always been as he’d expected. He was still her brother, still her father’s son.

“Arya, you saw what they were like while he was gone,” Sansa said at last. “When the time comes…when the truth comes out, he will need…they will still need to see him as a Stark first and foremost.” She paced back and forth and threw them both looks that were equally anxious and hopeful. “We’ll need an alliance that will bind the North together…not tear it asunder even more. And he will need to marry. He’ll need to marry and silence any who would call him a Targaryen.”

“How?” Arya asked in confusion…a confusion that Jon shared though a small part of him suspected. “How will marrying someone make him a Stark? Jon doesn’t have the Stark name.”

“No, but I do,” Sansa said simply.

Slowly, the two of them turned towards her as the impact of her words hit them both. She was proposing a marriage...between them. Jon knew his face was a mirror of Arya’s. Shock that she would offer herself in marriage to him.

“Sansa,” Arya said in horror. “He’s our…”

“Cousin. He’s our cousin and he…”

“Arya,” he choked out hoarsely, “I’d like to speak with Sansa alone.”

His little sister eyed him curiously but nodded and left them, shutting the door behind her.

He turned to face her…his cousin Sansa. She was not his sister, had never been in truth though it would take time to accept it fully. But he could not allow her to do this for him. She’d been forced into one loveless marriage and talked into another that had nearly been the death of her. He could not ask this of her.

“Sansa…I can’t marry you. I…”

“It would be a political match. It’d strengthen our house. I believe the lords will see how much sense it makes while keeping them focused on the more important matter of the war,” she said in a strained voice that belied the practicality of her words. “I know you’re not in love with me. You wouldn’t have to be…in time perhaps you could grow to…” She trailed off uncertainly.

His eyes widened in disbelief. Did she truly think he did not love her? Did she not see that he refused because he knew she was not in love with him?

“You deserve to marry for love, Sansa,” he said sadly.

A small sound escaped her lips, a broken sort of whimper as though he’d struck her.

“No one will ever marry me for love, Jon,” she said tremulously whilst she looked away, trying desperately to hide the tears in her eyes. “I believed in such things when I was a stupid little girl…but I know it’s not true now. The songs are all lies.”

“You’re wrong,” he croaked, his voice breaking with emotion to see her this vulnerable, to hear proof yet again that all her girlhood dreams had been smashed to pieces.

She did not know the truth.  She might not believe words alone.  She would have to be shown.

In three strides, he was right in front of her, his hands already cupping her face as that first threatened tear finally slid down her cheek.

“You’re wrong,” he said again, his voice low and thick with emotion as his thumb swiped that tear away.

Her blue eyes widened in surprise. Perhaps she’d not noticed how close he’d drawn. Perhaps she meant to argue with him. He would stop her mouth with a kiss before she could utter another word though.

His head dipped forward and he captured her sweet lips with his own.

Soft…Sansa was soft and delicate and magnificent. Blood pounded in his ears like thunder and all the world melted away for Jon…all but the crackling fire, Sansa’s smooth, fine face in his hands and her lips that were returning his kiss now.

When they pulled apart at last, both breathless with need, he bowed his head.

“I’m ashamed to admit how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he said gruffly, unable to believe that he had acted.

Sansa pondered his words. She knew what he meant. How long would they have lived denying their hearts if the truth had never been known? How long if he had remained her half-brother?

“There’s no need for shame now,” she whispered in response. “There’s only…”

“Love,” he said. “Let there be only love between us now.”

 


	4. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa inspect a new addition to the crypts.
> 
> Drabble, Post-series

 

They had waited hours to escape their bannermen and guests for this opportunity to see him.  The mason had just finished earlier today and hoped the king and queen would be pleased.  

Alone at last, the quiet surrounded them along with the direwolf that was their constant companion.

“Do you think they can see us here?” he asked as he laid his head in her lap and stared up at the statue of his mother.

Ghost was lying behind her, acting as a pillow of sorts. Jon did not care if their clothes became soiled from lying on the dirt floor. Surprisingly, Sansa did not seem to mind either.

A sense of peace found him here in the crypts tonight, the first time Jon could recall ever feeling this way here.

 _The war is won and we are free_ , he thought. _Well…in a sense, we are._

There were still many burdens and responsibilities on their shoulders, a castle to rebuild, a people to guide and a kingdom to restore.

“I don’t know,” Sansa answered at last. “I feel like if they can see us at all, it’s more likely when we’re outside.” Her eyes were turned towards the most recent addition to the crypts.

“Beneath the heart tree perhaps?” Jon asked.

“Perhaps,” she agreed as she stroked his curls. “Do you like it?” she asked next.  "I think the mason did fine work for us." 

Jon gazed at the statue of his brother Robb, the last King in the North before him. He would always think of him as his brother even if Sansa was no longer his sister.

“Aye…it’s a fair likeness,” he said.

The statue was all they had of him. The Frey’s had not shown any decency when it came to his brother’s bones.

He gazed at the stone work and felt that ache in his chest that would likely never leave, the bittersweet pang of having lived when a loved one had died. They had won…and they had lost. They grieved for those who would never return. The good had died along with the bad, heroes were lost just as villains had fallen. But it was the Starks who had died that haunted him and Sansa most.

Jon had not been down here in many moons. He’d meant to come sooner but he’d not been ready to face her or him when he’d learned the truth. And then the Dead had come and he had had more immediate concerns.

He’d last visited his father’s statue before he left for Dragonstone, back when he’d believed Ned Stark was his father. At the time, he’d given little thought to his Aunt Lyanna’s statue.

_Little did I know…_

He recalled who had joined him here in the crypts then and, for a moment, that white-hot rage surged in his blood. But, as he gazed up at the liquid blue eyes that were staring at their big brother now the feeling passed. That man was dead and she was safe and here beside him.

At last, Sansa stretched and covered her mouth as she yawned. It was growing late and the babe that grew within her made her tire easily.

“Come, wife,” he urged, springing to his feet and offering her his hand. “To bed with us both.  There will be plenty to do tomorrow.”

Ghost rose to his feet and shook his great body before padding along ahead of them.

Sansa turned back to look once more at the statues. There were others they missed who had no statues. In time, Jon meant to rectify that but their ghosts were with them whether they had a stone likeness in the crypts yet or not. Jon and Sansa would carry them with them for all their days remaining.

He looped an arm about her waist and drew her close, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. She flushed and smiled self-consciously.

“The dead do not mind,” he murmured.

“I know,” she said. “I like to think they would be glad for us…if they knew.”

She stroked her stomach that had only begun to grow.

He looked back at the man who had been his father, his mother and his brother Robb’s statue. They flickered in the torchlight. When he was a boy, he had played down here…but he had also had the dreams, the ones that had frightened him even as a man. He had not had those dreams in a long time now, not since he had died.

“I’m sure they would be,” he told his wife as he led her towards the stairs with Ghost in the lead.

 


	5. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is teaching Sansa about the pleasures to be found in bed but there are other lessons to learn. Set Post-series. This chapter is not related to the previous ones. In it, Sansa's comfort with their sexual intimacy has come about more slowly. 
> 
> TW-This chapter is rated Mature and contains mentions of Ramsay's abuse.

 

The fire in the hearth was shining behind her, setting her auburn hair ablaze like a new copper kettle. But Jon could not focus on her hair. Instead, he was watching her face; her blue eyes closed, her lashes against her flushed cheeks, her mouth parted in ecstasy.

He had just spilled within his wife. His chest was heaving from the exertion but he held her narrow waist tightly and continued to move within her as she enjoyed a final peak while astride him.

“Oh, Jon,” she sighed so sweetly as she reached it.

Once they’d worked past the awkward hesitancy of initiating intimacy in their marriage after a lifetime of believing themselves half-siblings, Jon had determined that their time together as man and wife would be as pleasant for her as possible. He felt confident that he’d achieved that tonight…but it was nice to be told.

“Did I please you, wife?” he murmured, stroking her cheek.

It was the first time he’d suggested she be on top. She’d gaped at him when he told her to ride him. Once he’d explained, her cheeks had turned the loveliest pink. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget her expression.

Her eyes fluttered opened even as her mouth was still agape. The flush on her cheeks deepened when she realized he was watching her. She smiled shyly and he gently rolled them to their sides.

He caressed her bare shoulder as she rolled to her back whist trying to catch her breath.

“That was…” she began and then trailed off uncertainly. He tried not to look too smug as he waited for her to continue. He raised an eyebrow at her when she glanced his way. “I, uh…I can see what all the fuss is about,” she finished with an endearing sweetness.

He chuckled and leaned forward to kiss her. “Aye?”

She looked from him to the ceiling above and then back to him. She drew a hand up to her face, half hiding behind it, and said, “That thing you did earlier…with your mouth…”

The smug look on his face would not be contained then. “You liked that, did you?”

There was a slight ache in his chest as he recalled another girl that had liked that, too. But Sansa was his wife and held his heart now. His time with Ygritte was in the past. Sansa was his future.

“No, I didn’t like it,” Sansa said matter-of-factly. Jon’s face drained of color and his jaw dropped. She’d writhed and moaned beneath him but perhaps it was an act. He started to apologize if he’d displeased her or disgusted her. Then, she grinned mischievously and said, “I didn’t like it. I loved it.”

He laughed then and pulled her to him to hold her tightly, calling her a wicked girl to tease him that way. He kissed her cheek, her neck, her shoulder…and one of the marks there.

Sansa stiffened and murmured that she needed to make use of the chamber pot. He reluctantly let her get up to wash. She went behind the screen to do so. Very proper his lady wife was…not that he minded that. He loved her dearly.

When she returned to the bed, he grasped her wrist before she could pull her shift back over her head.

“Leave it off,” he pled.

She sighed resignedly but climbed back into bed beside him. She never stayed unclothed for long after they coupled. She fretted over her scars no matter how often he told her they didn’t diminish her beauty one whit in his eyes. No matter how often he reminded her that he had scars of his own, she would seek to cover hers as soon as they finished their loving.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured for what might be the hundredth time as he held her, lighting tracing the scars along her belly and thighs.

She didn’t reply. She never did. She didn’t believe him.

His fingers traced the mark on her left breast beneath her nipple. It was a semi-circle…they were teeth marks. There were more like that other places on his wife’s fair skin. Sometimes, he would think about those marks and recall hitting Ramsay in the face over and over and over. He dreamed of hitting him until every last tooth had been knocked out of his head. He didn’t even know about the bites then. If he had…would he have stopped hitting him that day? Would he have stopped even for her?

He felt Sansa’s hand gliding across his chest then and he sucked in a deep breath. She would cry over his scars sometimes. He felt very unworthy of her tears but it didn’t stop her.

“Do they hurt?” she asked.

“No, love. They’re just scars. They’re uglier than normal scars but they do not hurt.”

For a long while, she was silent. He thought she might fall asleep in his arms. He would like that, for her to remain naked in his arms all through the night.

Just as his own eyes fluttered closed, Sansa spoke again.

“They’re like lessons, our scars,” she said. “Lessons we both learned the hard way.”

Jon hadn’t thought of them that way but she had a point. What lesson had he been taught? Not to trust? _I learned that one well…but I trust her._

“Aye…I suppose they are lessons.”

“So were the bites.”

His finger stopped moving from where he had still been stroking the bite mark. He waited to see if she would say anything else.

“I’m a wolf…at least I told myself as much,” she said unsteadily. “Many times, I did nothing. Many times, there was nothing I could do but try and go away and pretend it wasn’t happening. But if I could…I would bite him.”

Jon turned his head and found her blue eyes watching him solemnly. “What would happen when you bit him?” he asked.

“He’d bite me back.”

“You have many bite marks,” he said in wonder, cursing himself for saying it as soon as it slipped past his lips.

“I’m a slow learner,” she said sadly.

“No, I don’t think so,” he argued. “I think you’re very clever. You didn’t survive Joffrey’s court by being anything less. I think with Ramsay…you wanted to fight back. You were powerless much of the time but you fought back when you could. Your words when you refused to say what he wanted you to, your defiance, your refusal to break for him…all of those were your ways of fighting back, of not submitting. The biting was just a more physical way to fight back.”

“He thought it was funny.”

“I doubt that.”

Her face screwed up in emotion and he hoped he hadn’t hurt her by opening his stupid mouth.

“You’re right. He would laugh…but he was angry when I did it. He didn’t like it when I would fight back. He didn’t like it when I would lie there and pretend he wasn’t hurting me. He preferred my screams and my tears. I tried very hard not to give him those.”

“I’m sure you did. You watched him closely and learned what he liked and wanted to deny him that. You’re very brave, my love.”

“Brave?” she questioned and then smiled. “I’ve not thought of it that way. I only did what I had to do to survive.”

“You refused to let him have the heart of you. You fought in the ways you could. You jumped from the castle walls to escape him, Sansa. You preferred to face death than let him keep you, let him break you. I know you are brave.”

She watched his face as he spoke, staring intently, looking for a lie perhaps. She found none.

“I was more afraid of him stripping all that I was away than I was of dying. Can I be brave _and_ afraid?”

“Father asked Robb and I a question as boys. He said, ‘If a man’s not afraid, how can he be brave?’”

“I never heard him say that.” A soft smile appeared. “He can’t be truly brave if there’s nothing to fear.” He nodded. “It’s a good lesson.”

“It is.”

“I can be brave,” she whispered before she nestled into his side and shut her eyes.

“You always were,” he murmured in response.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know this one was kind of rough but I admire Sansa's strength and wanted to give it some attention here. I've had this one written for a while but I'll do something fluffier next time. Thanks for reading :)


	6. A Quiet Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa marry.

 

Before the Heart Tree, he waited. The eyes of many were upon him, making him anxious, making him draw inward. Many had agreed that this was necessary but there were those who did not like the necessity of it…or him much.

He glanced down at his plain black cloak. Sansa had said it might be best if it remained unadorned. No sigil, neither Stark as he wished to be nor Targaryen as he could rightfully claim.

He was not a Stark…not yet. She would make him one. He had no wish to be a Targaryen…not in name, not in deed.

There was little time left to them before the war began in earnest. The Dead were coming and Winterfell would be under siege soon. He was desperate to get her out of here before it was too late. He would rely on Brienne and Podrick to see her safely to the Riverlands. She would raise them an army. But more importantly, he hoped she would be removed from the more immediate dangers of Ice and Fire.

_An Ice that hates and a Fire that burns unchecked._

But tonight, Winterfell would host a wedding, a feast…and a bedding. His burned hand opened and closed in a fist at the thoughts of those that had suggested that last part should be confirmed in some manner by others. Longclaw was not on his hip at present but he would put in on again before the feast. Any who sought to ‘help’ his new bride out of her garments for the bedding would be fiercely dissuaded.

Tormund stood gawping nearby at Brienne and Jon had to hide his smirk. The lady ignored him and stood beside the Kingslayer.

_Ser Jaime_ , Sansa would’ve scolded him. _We can call him by his name_.

Sam and Gilly were in attendance as well. The other two dozen witnesses were lords and ladies of the North and the Vale and those that served House Stark, along with Tyrion who was the only member of Daenerys’s party to remain for this.

Arya was with Sansa. Bran sat in his chair by Jon’s side. They were the ones that mattered most anyway.

A light snow fell. Bran made mention of it, smiling to himself, pondering something all his own no doubt.

Jon saw a lantern approaching through the godswood and stood up straighter.

The sisters’ arms were linked; one carrying the lantern and wearing leather and breeches, the other in soft white wool, the long cloak covering her and her copper colored hair flowing down her back. She wore a tentative smile, her blue eyes round but at ease. He wished he could feel more at ease.

As soon as the young women came to a halt, Bran spoke.

“Who comes before the old gods?”

“Lady Sansa of House Stark,” Arya replied on behalf of her sister.

“And who comes to claim her?”

Jon hesitated. The thoughts of uttering Prince Aegon of House Targaryen left a bitter taste in his mouth. It had never truly been his name and he felt no desire to claim that title.

“Her cousin, Jon Snow…of House Stark…and House Targaryen,” he said instead.

There were a few murmurs from the onlookers but Sansa smiled. She knew him and she did not object to his choice of words.

“Lady Sansa,” Bran said, “do you take this man?”

“I take this man,” she said with none of the hesitation he worried she must feel.

And like that, they were married.

Jon had never witnessed a Southron wedding but he’d heard tale of cloaks being exchanged and septons droning on about duty and an exchange of vows.

He was of the North though and the North preferred this way, simple and to the point. A quick and quiet matter between the couple and the gods. He still hadn’t expected it to be so bloody quick though. A relieved breath escaped him. This part was done. Swearing his vows to the Nights Watch had taken longer than this.

He grasped his new bride’s hand to lead her to the feast. He felt a tug of resistance though as he started to move. He turned to look at her. The smile was gone. Her eyes were searching his face for something. She bit her lip uncertainly and something there spoke of worry.

_A kiss. Of course, you idiot_.

He grinned at her self-consciously before pressing his lips to hers. Soft and tenuous, he cupped her face and kissed his wife. His lips were chapped from the cold as they met her pink and pliant ones but a heat blossomed in his belly from that mere and modest kiss.

They had shared a few kisses already. He longed to share more than that but here, before the Heart Tree in the presence of the old gods, he would give her a chaste kiss and wait for the rest.

Her smile returned, lighting her face once more with that beauty that still stole the breath from him.

“I wasn’t sure you…” she began.

“I'm sorry.  I would not leave you in doubt.  I was just nervous and then relieved to have it done. I am glad to kiss my wife. Never doubt it.” She nodded and grasped his arm. “To the feast then?” he asked.

“To the feast,” she said. “And then…to bed.”

He gulped and looked around to see if others had heard. None seemed to and Sansa was smirking at him.

“Aye…to the feast and then to bed, wife,” he nodded, a salacious smile forming on his lips now. “Can the feast be over as quick as the wedding, do you think?”

Sansa laughed and shook her head at him before allowing him to guide her back towards the keep and out of the falling snow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I don't know if Jon and Sansa will marry before or after the war. But I like the idea of them marrying while it looms and having a night or two together so I went with that here. 
> 
> Also, I like the idea of Sansa raising the Riverlands to fight in Season 8, being as she has ties to not only the North and the Vale but to the Riverlands through her Tully blood but I have no idea if that will happen obviously :)


	7. Did You Feel the Same About Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is post-parent reveal. Sansa is trying to get Jon to see the logic of a marriage between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no update on these. I've got a couple more of these written but with the drabblefest, I've held off posting them.
> 
> Thank you to those of you still reading them :)

 

“It’s wrong,” he croaked, not willing to accept her solution.

_So stubborn as always_.

“It’s not. We're cousins.  We are not brother and sister.”

“We were though. At least…we grew up believing that we were.”

“Half-siblings.”

“ _Half_ ,” he sneered. “Still siblings, Sansa.”

His brow was furrowed and his lips were pressed together. He was angry...but not at her. He was hurt. She only wished to help. Well, perhaps she wished for more.

She took a deep breath. Jon was still reeling from what he’d learned. They all were but him most of all of course. Getting him to listen, to see logic could be a trial at times but Sansa knew him well enough by now. She would try another approach.

She sat down by the fire and picked up some sewing she’d been working on in her free moments…not that she enjoyed too many of those. Just as she hoped, he let out a huff at last and then came and sat beside her, staring morosely into the fire.

Cloaked in the silence of her chambers apart from the crackling fire, she sensed the easing of tension. She saw it in how he held himself. She caught him looking at her, staring in that manner he had. The heat of those stares gave her hope.

“When we were children…” she said off-handedly when she stopped to rethread her needle, “I remember the way Arya followed you everywhere. She’s always been very devoted to you…and you her.”

“Aye,” he said warily.

“You were always whispering together and sharing japes…sometimes at my expense, I suspect.” He lowered his eyes and clenched his burned hand. “It’s alright, Jon,” she said as she restarted her stitching.

“We were children then, Sansa.”

“Yes, we were. But…did you feel the same way about me? Did you feel the same about me as you did her?”

He reluctantly shook his head and looked guilty.

_Don’t feel guilty_.

“We were children,” he repeated.

“You know...when we parted, I don’t even recall saying goodbye to you, Jon. Everything felt so rushed and there were so many people moving about, some going with us and some staying behind. And then with Bran injured and Mother distracted by her grief…I’ll admit I’m ashamed of how excited I was to be leaving in the midst of all that turmoil. I was terribly sad over Bran but I was excited all the same.”

He smiled at her, a bittersweet smile of understanding. “You were leaving on a grand adventure, you thought. I thought the same. We did say a hurried goodbye to one another in the hall the morning we rode out. You were…” he trailed off uncertainly.

“I was what?” she asked, her curiosity peaked.

“You wished me well. You were sweet…and very pretty.”

She smiled at the sentiment and the way his cheeks flushed slightly with the admittance. “But you and Arya said good-bye and it was not hurried.”

“No…it was not.”

“And all the time we were apart, who did you think of more, Jon? Me or Arya?”

He ducked his head and scrubbed at his beard. “Arya,” he mumbled. “I didn’t think of you so often.”

“It’s alright. I didn’t think of you that often either. A man came from the Nights Watch to Kings Landing. I thought of you then. He was filthy and coarse. I felt sorry for you if he was the sort of companion you had at Castle Black.” He laughed at that. She clasped her hands together and bowed her head. “After Father…when the war began, it was Robb I prayed for. It was Robb I wept for. I prayed for my big brother to come and save me.”

“I’m sorry, Sansa.”

“Don’t be sorry, Jon. But don’t you see? I could never suggest this if you’d loved me as you love Arya…or if I’d thought of you the same as I thought of Robb.”

“I did love you, Sansa.”

“I know,” she said gently. “I loved you as well…but not the same as them.”

“No, not the same,” he admitted. “I do love you, Sansa. I have loved you for some time now.”

“But not the same as before?”

“No...not the same,” he said with another stare. 

Her heart fluttered at his words.  She knew this could work with time and patience.  “I feel the same towards you. So then…it could work, could it not?”

“Aye, I suppose it could,” he mused.

She sighed with relief and continued stitching as he stayed by her side. He had listened. In time, he would see the logic of it. But their time was fleeting.

_It’s a start, I suppose_.

 


	8. Promise Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is just a little idea I had for Season 8 if Jon and Sansa were trying to hide the truth of his parentage for a bit while coping with company at Winterfell. Jon would be brooding and Sansa would be considering their options of course :) It's along a similar vein as the last chapter I posted but different.

 

Sansa thoughtfully chewed at her bottom lip as she concentrated on her stitching. Gloves were not easy but she longed for the distraction. She wished it could be so simple again, to lose her cares as her nimble fingers were busy creating something useful or pretty depending upon the occasion.

She was doing her best to put the meeting in the hall from earlier out of her mind. But, the anger of the Northern lords and the stubbornness and then ire of the Dragon Queen were not easily forgotten. Tyrion had looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else. And Jon…she wasn’t sure what to think of Jon’s lack of response.

“Why shouldn’t they remarry? My Hand and your sister. It would make a fine alliance,” Daenerys had said. “And perhaps we shall…”

_We shall what?_ Sansa had wondered when the woman had trailed off, her violet eyes locked on Jon.

He had only given her stony silence in return.

But Daenerys did not know the truth. Jon had shared that with her last night and she’d urged him not to say anything yet. He’d agreed. With the Dead coming closer every day, Bran’s revelation could be most inconvenient if they meant to keep her as an ally and prevent the Northern Houses from turning on him completely.

Now, Sansa regretted biting her tongue and keeping her idea to herself. She had worried Jon would not agree…or be disgusted by her.

But to marry Tyrion again? No, she would not.

Sansa had glanced at Brienne and courteously begged everyone’s pardon, fleeing as fast as her legs could carry her to the godswood with Brienne behind her, refusing to allow others to pester her.

There, the silence and gentle snowfall had brought to mind another morning long ago in the Eyrie when she’d built Winterfell in the snow. _Snow_. It was the taste of innocence. Snowflakes that kissed her nose, lips and lashes, as sweet and tender as any lover in a song. She’d felt hope that morning. It was later that hope was dashed again.

But this morning, she felt only despair. Such bitter disappointments, only to be followed by more. Twice she had been married off by someone else’s scheming. Jon was no schemer. He would never force her. But if he should come to her and gently suggest she consider the match, she was certain that her heart that had finally begun to heal would break yet again. She wasn’t sure it could bear much more before it was broken beyond repair.

After a while though, that resilience that she had been born with reasserted itself and she had wiped her eyes. She told Brienne to warm herself by the fire and that she wished to be alone to sew for a while.

A knock at the door drew her from her troubled thoughts.

“Come in,” she called, thinking it must be Brienne.

It was not.

He was quiet as he joined her beside her fire but his dark eyes seemed eager to communicate something. What exactly, she did not know. He did not speak and she would not guess at his intentions with this visit. They had spoken very little since his arrival other than when she’d found him in his distress last night and given him what comfort she could.

She continued her work and, as she worked, her initial tension over his presence faded. When she was more at ease, he spoke at last.

“You will not marry Tyrion…not unless you want to.”

“I do not want to.”

“No one will force you to marry anyone. I promise.”

She nodded her thanks for his words but promises were easy to make and easy to break. She swallowed the lump in her throat and asked, “Not even if your queen demands it?”

“She will demand nothing of you,” he replied with a grimace. “I will see to that.”

Their eyes met, a rush of affection and a ripple of something not yet defined filling the air between them. However frustrated she was with him, she loved him still.

“What are you making?” he asked to break this unspoken tension at last.

“Gloves for you.”

A small smile formed on his face. He was trying to suppress it but he could not keep the corners of his mouth from twitching upward.

“I have gloves.” She arched a brow at him. “I could use a new pair of gloves,” he amended. He chuckled at her satisfied nod. His hand sought hers. “No one will force you to marry,” he vowed again once she’d given it to him.

“Someday I will have to marry though,” she said, probing gently. She smiled secretly at the vexed expression he wore. Perhaps her idea would not be so abhorrent to him.

“Only if you like,” he said earnestly. “Promise me you will never marry against your wishes out of some misplaced sense of duty and I promise you will never be forced to marry anyone you don’t wish to.”

“And what if there was a man I wished to marry… _cousin_?”

Jon’s jaw clenched as he tried to master his emotions at her words. Though he was capable of it, disguises did not come easily to him…not with her anyway. But when he took note of her last word and her emphasis upon it, he chuckled.

“If there is a man you wish to marry, I promise to hear you out.”

 


	9. A Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Married Jonsa/Post series.
> 
> This one is mature but fluffy ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the deal...I wrote this to celebrate something. I have been working hard to finish an ongoing WIP that I started well over a year ago and it is DONE at last!! I'm going to post it after a final read through but I am just so happy to have it done I wanted to write something light and sweet to celebrate so I hope you'll enjoy this :)

 

Jon climbed back under the furs, having finally caught his breath from his peak. Sansa immediately nestled up against him, one hand on his chest and her chin resting upon him. She was humming softly. Her auburn hair was spilled all around them. He wound a finger around one silky tendril. Her cheeks were still flushed a lovely pink and her blue eyes were shining happily as he smiled down at her.

He swelled with an indecent pride. She had thoroughly enjoyed it. Well, she had said she enjoyed their loving since the start. What was different this time was that Sansa had peaked with him inside her. She had cried out his name whilst he gripped her hips and thrusted within her slick, wet tightness. Her mouth had gone slack, her eyes had fluttered closed.

_“Ohhhh…JON!”_ she’d cried out.

More than once, she’d moaned loudly and called his name until he could take no more and grunted her name as he spilled.  When he'd brought her to peak with his mouth and fingers, she was always trying to stifle her cries.  He'd have no more of that now.  He'd be remembering her making those sounds regularly he suspected and wanting to hear them every chance he got. 

He felt like a preening cock and knew he should be ashamed of such pride. He couldn’t help it though. He’d been determined to bring her to a peak this way. Since the first time he’d watched her writhing beneath him whilst he supped at her cunt, her fingers twisting and pulling at his curls, he’d challenged himself to give her pleasure in every way that he could.

So now, he held his wife close and enjoyed the stain upon her cheeks. He had put it there.

She bit her lip and her brow furrowed as he watched her.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I…I think I can see what everyone goes on about,” she giggled. “I mean, it was lovely before but…” She blushed and said no more.

His heart, which was already filled with love for his lady, seemed to expand in his chest.

_“We’ll go slow,”_ he’d promised her when they had wed. Sansa deserved to know joy in the marriage bed. It might take some time until her ardor matched his own, he’d thought. It really hadn’t taken all that long though. He was glad.

He chuckled and squeezed her to him. “You do, do you?” he smirked.

She pinched his nipple with a vexed look that made him laugh fully. “Do not mock me,” she warned but her smile remained.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my lady,” he swore. “I’m only relieved that no guards came bursting through the door. I would’ve had to kill them.”

Her expression turned tense. “Why would they have done that?”

“Well, the way you were screaming my name, I’d wager half the castle heard you.” Her face fell, her mouth was hanging open again but in astonishment and growing mortification now. “You shouldn’t worry,” he said. “They know I’d rather die than hurt you.”

She buried her face in his chest. She was blushing so furiously he could feel the heat of her cheeks. Her forehead nearly matched her hair.

“I will never be able to look...anyone in the eye again,” she whispered.

“Oh yes, you will,” he growled. He tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “I forbid you to feel any shame, sweet girl. You are my wife and their lady. You can scream my name in these chambers…and I’m planning on making that happen as often as you’ll allow…and then you can face every eye when you leave our bed to go about your day.”

“But Jon…gods, what will they think of me?”

“They’ll think your husband loves you well. Perhaps they’ll think you lucky. I know I certainly am lucky.”

She smiled again and he was relieved to see that she would no longer allow any embarrassment to concern her…too much.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. She nibbled at his bottom lip. Her eyes sparkled. His pulse quickened. His hand that had been wrapped around her slid downward towards her firm arse. Sansa’s breath grew short again. Her hand on his chest moved lower.

“Well, husband…perhaps I’ll challenge you to show them how lucky I am some more.” He nodded eagerly. There was a wicked gleam in her eye when she added, “And this time…perhaps you can manage to make me scream loud enough for the _whole_ castle to hear.”

“Is that a challenge, wife?” he asked as he rolled to be on top of her. He didn’t wait of her answer. “I accept.”

 


	10. Something He Had Never Dared Dream Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's thoughts of his newborn son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my son's birthday and I'm feeling sentimental so have a fluffy Jonsa baby drabble!

 

He did not look like Sansa. But he didn’t particularly look like him either.

He was very small. Jon secretly feared he was too small though the maester had assured him the babe was healthy.

He’d pictured red hair, maybe darker than hers…more like Robb’s had been. The babe’s hair was dark. But he didn’t have grey eyes like Jon. They were blue.

He was red and wrinkly and currently snuffling at his wife’s breasts. Those were fuller than they had been and he overheard one of the older women telling his wife they would get larger still when she got all her milk.

_Larger still? How much larger…stop staring at her teats_ , he admonished himself.

She’d just given birth to their son and he was…he really was an animal.

His wife’s face was beatific as she gave suck to the person they had made. He was grunting like a little beast.

In time, he seemed to exhaust himself and grew quiet. Sansa glanced over at him where he stood uncertainly, fiddling with his jerkin and not quite sure what he should do. Her eyes were wet with tears and bright with wonder.

“Do you wish to hold him?” she asked.

He did want that, he wanted that very much. But he was so small and Jon had no experience with babes.

“I’m not sure I…”

His wife shifted slightly to present him with their little bundle…and winced. Without further thought of how tiny babes were or how clumsy he’d felt at the thoughts of holding such a delicate thing, he took his son from his wife’s arms, allowing her to sink gratefully back into the pillows.

He was warm in his blankets. His eyes were closed. His face was the picture of peace and contentment at the moment, not at all like the squalling creature he had first beheld as Sansa collapsed back against his chest with her final push.

“He’s not what I imagined,” he said. Sansa looked confused. A frown began to form. He’d not meant that to come out wrong. “I mean, I’d pictured him looking more like you.”

“He’s just been born,” his wife laughed. “Babes change a great deal in the first few moons. Maybe he'll favor us both but I think he’ll look like you.”

She was smiling again and she thought their son would look like him.

Jon smiled down at his sleeping son, something he had never dared dream of when he took his vows at the Wall.

“Sansa…could we name him Robb?”

 


	11. All This Way...for Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Here be Season 8...Speculation!
> 
> Cersei sends her army north to Winterfell to reclaim something that belongs to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this ficlet, Jon and Sansa are not married...yet.

 

_‘Everyone who’s ever crossed her, she’s found a way to murder.’_

When she’d spoken those words to Jon, she’d been hoping he’d see that Cersei was a threat he needed to take seriously. At the time, she hadn’t been worrying so much about herself.

But as she looked about her new chambers, which were actually her old chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast, she _was_ worried. However, knowing Cersei as she did, she couldn’t say she was all that surprised by this turn of events.

They hadn’t thrown her in a dungeon or chained her to a wall as she would’ve expected though. No, she was once more a ‘distinguished’ sort of prisoner. Dressed in finery and surrounded by comforts, she wanted for nothing but the freedom to leave.

Sansa knew that Cersei was only toying with her though. She would never leave this place. Cersei had plans for her. She might be a valuable hostage but that was not what Cersei had in mind.

Even if Sansa had been unaware of the deadly poison she had carried around her neck to Joffrey’s wedding, she had carried it there. Every time she saw Cersei, she was wearing Joffrey’s ring. A woman with so little left and nursing that sort of revenge in her heart would make this last. She’d want her to suffer a long while before she had her killed. Sansa knew it. She’d been forced to play these sorts of games before after all.

“I had hoped you would accept my invitation when I invited you to Kings Landing a while ago.”

“Forgive me for declining, Your Grace. I had affairs at home to see to.”

“Yes…well, there’s nothing for you to worry yourself about there now.”

When the Lannister Army and the Golden Company had attacked Winterfell after Jon and their armies had marched North to fight the Night King and the Dead, Sansa had rallied the castle to defend itself for as long as possible as the ravens flew. She could only hope some had avoided the archers so that Jon and the rest knew what awaited them if they were forced to fall back to Winterfell.

In the end, with so many men away fighting the true enemy, the castle had fallen and Sansa had been taken. Cersei had no intention of anyone coming to her rescue. They’d murdered some poor red-haired girl and dressed her in Sansa’s clothes before mutilating her corpse. Her family would believe her dead.

_Perhaps Bran will know the truth. Perhaps not._

It was hard to say. It was the only hope she had but it didn’t count for much.

For now, Cersei seemed to be taking a delight in visiting her once a day, making cruel remarks about how no one had loved her enough to save her before and no one would this time either. Then, she’d ask her to confess that she was complicit in the plot to kill Joffrey.

Ser Gregor was always with her, a lingering threat of the vile things she might have in store for her.

Sansa would say little if anything. There was nothing to say truly. But she could say little to nothing quite cleverly now, she could keep the queen guessing, keep her amused for a time. Sansa could play this game if she must. Perhaps she’d find a way to escape or a friend to help her escape again. But in truth, she was downcast and losing faith. The game was tiresome.

_I never asked to play._

No pleas or bribery would move Cersei, she knew. And if her family thought her dead, no one would be coming for her.

_Who would come anyway? I am only one person and there’s a more important battle to be fought._

Nevertheless, she would play the game as long as she could. She only hoped that when Cersei grew bored with it and with her, the rest would not be more than she could endure until it finally came to an end. She’d endured so much already. Surely, the gods would tire of her torment in time and give her a release.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you mad?!” Tyrion asked, hobbling along after him as fast as he could manage when Jon stormed from the tent.

_Am I? Well, half my ancestors were._

“No,” he said gruffly.

“You’re abandoning us…now?!”

“I am not abandoning you. I’ll return as soon as I am able.”

“Jon…I am not blind. The others are not blind. The way you tore out of the room the moment you read that scroll…I understand you care for your sister but…”

“My cousin. Sansa is my cousin. She is also my…excuse me.”

The little man was only slowing him down. He had to reach her. He’d sworn to protect her and he had utterly failed. What were his words worth if he could not fulfill this one vow?

“Sansa knows how important this war is. Sometimes we must choose duty over love,” Tyrion said as Jon called for Rhaegal.

Maester Aemon’s words came back to Jon as he heard the dragon’s answering screech. The old man had told a headstrong boy a thousand years ago that someday he would have to choose between love and duty and then live with that choice as he had. He’d been the blood of the dragon as well.

_But I am both, the dragon and the wolf. And, I am the blood of Winterfell._

He’d already chosen duty over love once and paid the price for that. Now, he’d taste the price for choosing love over duty. He knew this choice would have consequences. Things between himself and Daenerys were strained. This would likely splinter them irrevocably. But Bran had sent word already knowing what Jon would do. Arya knew why he was going. And this was one promise he meant to keep.

_The others are not blind. I am a fool in love perhaps but I will not abandon her to death and torment at Cersei’s hands._

With a mighty thump, Rhaegal landed before him. Jon didn’t even look back before he mounted the dragon to fly south.

 

* * *

 

 

The castle was astir. The whole city seemed to be. There were rumors that Daenerys Targaryen had flown her dragons south and would burn them all to ashes over Queen Cersei’s treachery.

Sansa saw no dragons. She did not hear their cries. There was only an eerie silence in her lavish cell.

Day by day, she kept up her charade for the queen. But Cersei was becoming impatient. She was growing more vulgar and issuing more threats every day. Something had happened, Sansa could tell. Some final blow had left the queen with no more joy and no more hope.

 _It will all be over soon,_ she told herself morosely. _Please, gods…let it be over sooner rather than later_ , she shuddered.

One morning, there was a fluttering at her window which Sansa went to investigate. It was a little bird, a pretty little thing that had landed upon her windowsill. But one of its feet had become ensnared by the lace of her curtains.

Cautiously, Sansa closed her hands around the poor creature. She could feel its small heart drumming through its breast in its terror. She gently freed it from the lace and opened her hands, a smile lighting her face as it flew away.

_One of us is free now._

It was then the silence outside of her chambers was shattered by an oath and then a cry. Then, there was a great clamor and Sansa shrunk back into the shadows of her chambers, seeking out anything that could be a weapon.

What could this mean? Had Cersei finally had enough of their little chats? Was it time for the true games to begin?

Her door was bolted from the outside. She could not escape unless she wished to take the bird’s route. But that would only mean her broken body on the stones far below. She was not a bird. She was a wolf. She could not fly but she could face whoever was coming for her now.

The door flew open and she stifled a yelp…and then gasped in surprise.

She knew his face well and yet she thought she must be imagining his presence. What was he doing here?

“What are you doing here?” she asked the mirage standing in the doorway, still grasping his sword.

He gave her an incredulous look and then scoffed. A smile fleetingly appeared. “I’ve come for you, of course,” he said, crossing the chamber until he was right in front of her.

He looked a fright. He was bloodied and filthy. What had happened?

“Come for me? Are you mad?”

“Quite mad,” he answered, taking her into his arms. “Madly in love with my intended, it seems.”

A betrothal. They’d agreed to it before he left. All things considered, it had made sense. But Jon had said they would wait until after he returned to wed, assuming he ever returned, and Sansa had thought he felt nothing beyond kinship for her.

But this…this action said differently. In that moment, hope bloomed in her heart once more.

“Have they injured you?” he asked tenderly.

“No. She has held me against my will but she has not injured me. Where is she? And what of the Dead?”

“The Walkers still need to be defeated…but Cersei is dead. She believed me a Northern Fool and thought I’d come to kneel.”

“But you did not.”

“No, I am not above deceit when it comes to what matters, Sansa. You know this.”

“It was still a foolish risk.”

“You’re welcome,” he chuckled.

“Jon…did you really come all this way…for me?”

“Aye, all this way…for you,” he answered before pressing his lips to hers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I have no idea if the kidnap plot is going to be the real deal or not or how exactly it might play out. It's fun to play with these ideas though as I know some authors have done. It would be interesting for Sansa and Cersei to meet up again and certainly Jon may face the hard choice of love v. duty again. We shall see in '19, I guess :)


	12. The Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 8 speculation. Post-parent reveal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I spend way too much time thinking about what a first Jonsa kiss could be like and I probably didn't do this justice but anyway...

 

Jon had expected her anger when he returned but she’d expressed no rage.  She'd been merely...aloof.

_A biting chill that seeps into my bones though.  A northern sort of anger_ , he thought with an inner smile despite his misery.

No tantrums or threats or tears. He knew Sansa would not indulge in such childishness. No burning wrath or wounded pride either. Just a cool distance mingled with a hint of disappointment. And no smiles nor advice offered since his return. No words at all save what she was forced to address to him and those always in the presence of others. Never a moment of her time in private would he be granted unasked.

He'd accepted her icy displeasure even though it pierced him as deeply and as surely as any blade. He deserved nothing better even if he’d only wished to protect her. That one thing she’d told him to stop trying to do. That one thing he would never stop attempting to do.

But, he’d foolishly thought her cool anger would be the worst of it.

What did he know?

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

**

“Sansa,” he said heavily when she found him alone in the crypts.

His voice was gruff and sounded as broken as he looked. His eyes were wet with unshed tears. She stopped beside him where he stood in the presence of his mother and his uncle. Of all the surprises she’d known, good and bad, this was one of the most unexpected.

“How long have you known?”

“Bran only just told me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be. He was right to tell you first,” she replied as she tugged off her gloves. It was not so cold down here away from the biting winds that howled above.

It was only when he spoke again that she realized he might’ve been apologizing for any number of things.

“I wish I…” He trailed off miserably. “I don’t even know what I wish.”

_Nor do I._

There were so many things to consider but Sansa found she didn’t want to think of them all just now. She would have to soon enough. They both would.

But tonight, he needed something else.

She took his hand in hers. It should not make her pulse quicken. It should not.

_But it does_.

His hand was warm. He had calluses from years of wielding swords and other hard work. Her own were cool. They were softer though wielding a pen and needle had left a rough spot or two behind as well.

He stared at her, his dark eyes imploring, his expression raw and vulnerable, reminding her of the bastard boy who her mother had never been able to love. It was a shame she would never know the truth. He was not so hard to love. In fact, Sansa found him quite the opposite.

**

So much pain and uncertainty. So many questions. So many unintended consequences this news might bring. It made his head hurt.

He dared a glance at Sansa…beautiful Sansa. What must she think of him? Did she hate him? Was she insulted by his very presence here in this place that belonged to the Starks as much as the Heart Tree in the godswood did?

But when she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close with a murmured word of comfort, he forgot those worries. Instead, he thought his heart might burst.

She kissed his forehead, a soft gesture of protection and love, one that made his pain more bearable. He was not alone.

“What will we do?” she whispered against his brow.

He quivered subtly with a need he was still afraid to acknowledge. “I don’t know. I only know what still must be done. This changes nothing even if it changes everything.”

He grimaced at the thought of facing Daenerys now. His stomach coiled in a knot of disgust. And she would never believe he had not known all along.

Sansa drew back to look him in the eye. “I did not think you fond of riddles.”

“I’m not,” he chuckled dourly.

“One thing has not changed.” He raised an eyebrow, wanting her to continue. “You are still the blood of Winterfell. You’re still a Stark to me.”

His heart did not burst but it ached. Oh, it ached so keenly at her words.

She was so close. Her hands were resting on his shoulders still. His chest was heaving as he watched her breathing in and out, unable to tear his eyes from her mouth. Her eyes were darker. His likely were as well.

“But not your brother?” he asked, testing.

“Not my brother.”

“Sansa…”

She cut him off with a kiss.

**

It was bold of her but she could be bold and brave, too. After enduring enough kisses forced on her over the years, she liked to think she could give one for a change. Hopefully, it was not unwanted.

_It is not unwanted,_ she decided, relieved by his hands resting lightly at her waist as he responded eagerly.

She angled her head slightly to deepen the kiss. He replied with a groan that shot sparks of longing throughout her body.

His lips parted and his tongue, rough and wet and warmth, teased her mouth. She opened her mouth and herself to his kiss, winding her arms around his neck, no longer ashamed of the way she felt.  She felt her heart opening as well, unfurling for him like a flower in the spring after so many years of careful guarding.

Their kiss was fueled by hunger and passion but cloaked in sweet longing, too. All the tender things that were still tucked deep inside her heart were stirred by the kiss that Sansa wished would never end. To end it would mean to take another step towards their uncertain fates. Here in this moment, there was only herself and Jon.

He tasted of ale and smelled of wood smoke. His arms were strong as he pulled her closer as though he wished to allow no space between them.  All the while, Sansa kissed him freely and was kissed reverently in return. 

It felt like he was consuming her. She wanted to be consumed. 

His kisses were full of love.  She wanted to be loved.  

**

Her skin and hair were so soft. Her blue eyes reminded him of a lake reflecting the moonlight. There was a tartness to her tongue, like the lemon cakes she’d coveted as a girl. 

All of it was part of Sansa.  His Sansa, fierce and sweet and everything in between.  Sansa, who held his heart in her delicate hands.  

With a gasp for air, she pulled away at last, leaving him equally sated and starved for more. He could never get enough, he suspected.

“I thought there was something wrong with me,” he said with a ragged breath. “That I should want my sister…”

“I feared the same,” she said, her eyes still sparkling but softer than he’d seen them since he’d left Winterfell so many moons ago. He felt her hot breath against his lips. She trembled slightly in his arms. “What will we do?” she asked again.

“This,” he answered…before kissing her once more.

 


	13. What's Your Tax Policy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post series. King Jon and Queen Sansa. I like the idea of them being in the North but in this Jon has been crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms. This one is Mature at the end.
> 
> Inspired by GRRM's question regarding the Lord of the Rings-What was Aragorn's tax policy?

 

“‘What’s your tax policy, King Jon?’ he asked me next. You should’ve seen his smirk as I stood there gaping at him. Tax policy? What in seven hells do I know about taxes? I swear that man hates me.”

Sansa smothered her own smirk at her husband’s grousing as they lay abed. “Lord Royce does not hate you,” she said soothingly. _Maybe dislikes you the slightest bit. You are a king. Not all will love you…nor me._

She didn’t really care at the moment. The true enemies were dead and there would always be critics and those who had complaints.

Instead, she meant to enjoy Jon lying naked on his back as she was cradled by one arm at his side. His hand was idly tracing the scars low on her back. She knew he was doing it subconsciously. He told her she was beautiful and the scars only reminded him of her strength. She traced the scars on his chest in return and rested her head there, listening to the steady, reassuring thumping of his heart. He was strong as well.

He stroked her face tenderly and then kissed her brow, murmuring an apology for bringing up such matters in their bed after their loving.

“We are married, Jon. We can always discuss our troubles together wherever we are.”

“Aye?” She nodded. “So what is our tax policy then, my clever queen?”

She grinned and ducked her head, pleased by the question and the compliment. “We look at what was done before, how Father handled such matters. We ask for advice of those who have experience with such things. Things that worked, that were good, we keep. Things that did not, we do away with. It will be a work in progress…like everything else as we recover from the war and everything.”

“A sound place to start.” He stared at her affectionately, a mischievous glint in his eye. “How long will it take you, do you think?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Oh, I would say many moons to get it right. I suppose I will be terribly busy. Perhaps I’ll rise and get started though it is still night.”

His grip around her tightened before she could even start to move. “You will do no such thing.”

“Does my king intend to keep me busy elsewhere?”

“He does,” he replied, low and husky, sending shivers of delight coursing through her body.

“I’ll be busy soon enough though. I might not have much time for tax plans or anything for a time.”

“Will you?”

“Yes...in about six moons or so,” she told him with a twinkle in her eyes.

She waited as his eyes narrowed and then widened, his mouth falling open as he looked adorably overcome. “Sansa? Are you…”

She nodded happily, the smile breaking out till her cheeks nearly ached. He kissed her heartily and answered her smile with one of his own. His smiles were a precious thing to her. They were not exactly rare but this sort of smile, one where he was truly happy, were not much in evidence since he’d been crowned.

Then, a wry grin appeared and he lifted his brows. “I had wondered. Your breasts seem larger. I noticed when I had my mouth on them and was…”

“Jon!” she gasped, shocked.

“I started to ask Sam.”

“You did not!”

She smacked his shoulder and he started chuckling. “I did not. I was going to ask you but things have been so…”

“Yes. I suppose I should get to work,” she teased.

“No, you will not,” he growled, rolling her to her back with him on top.

Another kiss, laced with far more passion and hunger than the earlier one. She grew breathless as she felt his length growing hard against her thigh. He stroked it between her damp folds before sliding inside. Her head lolled back as she reveled in the pleasure her husband brought her.

“Tonight, we’re going to celebrate something far more important than any tax policies, wife,” he promised.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on an update for A Match but with a crazy, busy weekend planned that'll have to keep a few more days. But I woke up with this idea and it wouldn't let me go till I churned it out. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!


	14. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Series. Sort of full circle with Jon and Sansa's children partly through their son Bran's POV. 
> 
> Reminder that in the books Bran was seven when he witnessed his father doling out justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's been laying around half finished for over a month. Actually, I've got a few of these that are half finished and one that's probably going to wind up being a separate one shot. Oh, well! Have this one today :)

 

Robb’s arrow hissed through the air and into the hay-filled target with a soft thump. A wide grin spread across his face. He was always the best and Bran found it intolerable that Robb should always be the best.

All three boys looked up to where Mother and Father stood watching over the courtyard. Earlier, they had been watching. When one of them hit their target, Father would clap and Mother would smile. Even if they didn’t hit it, Mother would still smile at them and Father would give an encouraging word.

But Robb received no praise. At present, they were not watching. They appeared to be quarreling.

Rickon was squirming in Mother’s arms and fretful. He was sprouting teeth Father had told them at supper last night when Bran asked why his little brother was so ill-tempered. Perhaps, it was making Mother and Father ill-tempered as well.

Bran turned his attention to his older brothers as Robb handed over the bow. Robb laughed when Ned’s arrow went wide of the mark and Ned stamped his foot. The boys looked up again but there was no word of encouragement for Ned. Mother looked upset and Father looked tired.

“Your turn, Bran,” Robb said, his eyes watching their parents.

“Not right now,” he said. He wanted to watch them, too.

Even as they argued, Bran could see the way Mother’s eyes implored Father. He wondered what she was asking. He could not hear Father’s voice. Father rarely shouted and never raised his voice at Mother from what Bran could tell.

Father looked down at the three of them at last. Half a smile appeared when he saw the three of them staring back up at him. “Boys, saddle your horses. You as well, Bran,” he called.

Mother bit her lip but said nothing. She held Rickon tighter.

Bran was delighted to be included. He was nine now. Before long, he would be a man grown. Father rode beside him, solemnly telling him of a lord’s duty. He nodded and pretended he understood.

When they returned to the castle, Mother was waiting for them in the courtyard. Robb and Ned kissed Mother’s cheek and raced towards the kitchens when she bade them to go and have a bite. Bran watched his father head off towards the godswood with Ghost by his side.

“Aren’t you hungry, Bran?” Mother asked, stroking his hair lightly.

He looked up at his mother. He was not the same little boy who had rode out earlier. He should feel proud to be more grown up. He was horrified when he realized part of him wanted to cry. Why?

“I was eager to be grown as well,” Mother whispered then.

“It was different than I thought.”

His mother nodded sympathetically and put an arm around him, leading him to where his brother’s were busily gorging themselves on fresh bread and honey.

 

* * *

 

 

Ghost’s head lifted from his paws and Jon heard it, her soft footfalls approaching. He wiped down his sword and waited for his wife to come sit beside him.

“How is Bran?”

“He’ll be fine. He was making his brothers and sisters laugh as cook was passing out lemon cakes when I came to find you.”

“Sansa, I know you didn’t want me to take Bran but I was younger than him when…”

“I know, Jon. I have made peace with your decision to take him.”

 _I wish I could say the same._ He reached for Sansa’s hand and allowed his thumb to swipe across her skin which was so much softer than his own.

“How are you?” she asked next.

Jon scowled and stared into the murky water at the foot of the heart tree. He had taken many lives in battle. He’d taken more than a few heads as a lord. He knew it was his duty and he would never shirk his duty. But it was not always easy no matter the reason.

“The man died as he lived, a craven,” he spat as he recalled the rapist’s pitiful tears and pleas.

“I did not ask how the man died.”

His lips quirked into a smile and he encouraged her to lay her head upon his shoulder. “My wife takes good care of us all,” he said as he kissed the top of her head.

“That is _my_ duty, husband.”

 


	15. His Precious Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa's daughter has suitors vying for her hand. Jon doesn't like it much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow...it's been a minute on these! Sorry for that. 
> 
> This is another post-canon look at Jon and Sansa with their children. Hope you enjoy :)

 

The Lady of Winterfell’s needle darted in and out of the pale grey fabric. She brushed back a loose tendril of hair that had escaped her braid. She wrapped it around her long finger, frowning slightly at the grey hairs that were becoming more noticeable in her auburn locks.

“Mother?”

Sansa let go of her hair to look at her eldest daughter’s progress. “Very fine work, my dear,” she said of the dark blue dress. It was a Northern dress, made for the cold and snow but Lyanna had embroidered it with golden dragonflies along the sleeves. The dress fit her blossoming figure nicely and the detail added a touch of elegance that mother and daughter found pleasing.

“I thought…I’d hoped to wear it at the harvest feast.”

“Oh?” Sansa said with a private smile. Several young men would be in attendance, sons of their bannermen as well as a few knights from the South were expected at the feast her and Jon were hosting. “I think that would be an ideal time to wear it.”

Lyanna was a beautiful maid of five and ten with dark copper hair and blue eyes that matched her own. And, Jon refused to speak of any betrothals before her sixteenth name day.

 _“What’s the rush?”_ he’d asked the other night when they were lying in bed after another suggested match had been made. _“Lya is still a girl. What’s the harm in letting her enjoy being a girl a bit longer.”_

 _“There is no harm in it at all,”_ Sansa had said as she nestled against his side. _“Surely, you don’t believe I would push her towards marrying too soon considering my own experiences. But her dreams are those of a girl flowered not a child, Jon. She looks forward to receiving the attentions of young men and being courted. She sings of knights and ladies and talks of having children of her own someday. Just as I did.”_

Jon’s groaned response had been rather comical. 

“Will Father think it pretty?” Lyanna asked, pulling Sansa from her reflections as she chewed at her bottom lip uncertainly.

“I’m certain of it.”

 

* * *

 

 

_The Cerwyn youth is far too green to make her a decent husband. The Umber lad is too gruff. The Mormont boy might do but Bear Island is so far._

Jon stood at the head table, convinced that it was quite unfair of the gods to bless him with daughters if they only intended for some unworthy boy to take them from him someday.  And clearly, none could ever be worthy of his girls.

Sansa was beautiful dressed in pale grey with direwolves embroidered along the collar. He watched as she easily charmed their scores of guests with her courtesies.

Their children were lined up to greet the guests as well. His daughters were by his side. Arya was fussing with the sleeves of her dress and Lyarra was asking when there might be lemon cakes. Jon smiled indulgently at them both. He loved them all dearly.

But Lyanna…Lyanna was their first born. She had been his precious little girl from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. It didn’t seem right for her to be standing there nearly as tall as him. She should still be sitting upon his knee at occasions such as this.

She was radiant tonight in her new gown and she wore a beatific smile, obviously delighted by the upcoming celebration and dancing to follow. There was no other word to describe her.

Once everyone had been received, Sansa gave him a nudge. It was up to him to start the feast.

An hour later, he sat brooding over his ale as he watched his wife being twirled around the room by yet another man.

_Get off your arse and dance with her then._

“Mother’s dress is pretty,” Lyanna whispered in his ear. He had not heard her approach. She looked decidedly dejected.

“It is. Your mother looks lovely as do you. Your dress is beautiful.  I like the dragonfly bit.  But what is troubling you, my daughter?”

“I am…I had hoped…”

Her blue eyes, so like her mother’s, darted towards the handsome Southron knight who’d journeyed up from Highgarden for adventure. He was dressed far more splendidly than any other man present. He was little more than a boy to Jon's eyes and he was grinning at some fellows seated with him. He’d not paid any particular interest to Lyanna…unlike most of the unmarried men present.

 _Too full of himself_ , Jon decided.  

“Do you know…I have not danced a single dance tonight."

Lyanna’s lips turned upward. She was perfectly aware of his aversion to dancing though he’d indulged her more than once as a child standing on top of his boots. “What a shame, Father,” she said wryly. “You should remedy that.”

“Aye, I should.” He stood and delicately offered his hand. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

She flushed as pink as her mother might’ve as a girl and nodded.

At the start of the next song, the Mormont lad had come up, stuttering over his words but managing to ask if he might be permitted this dance. Lyanna had accepted at once, not giving the pretty youth from the South another look.

It was then Jon claimed his wife as his partner. “You’ve indulged our guests enough this evening,” he said in a far more possessive tone than intended. Or perhaps it was intended.

They cast a few discreet looks at their daughter who was laughing and blushing as the Mormont boy spoke.

“Not till she’s six and ten though,” he said as if they’d been debating it.

“But then? If she wishes…”

“At least Bear Island is not so far as Highgarden.”

 


	16. Softly Before We Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first night might've been their last. In the grey morning light, they'll say their goodbyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little drabble I was going to post for drabblefest but it’s so short I’m adding it here :)

The grey light of morning creeps into the lord's chambers. The dying fire offers little warmth but they are warm. She’s lying beside him, the furs protecting them from winter’s chill.

He murmurs that her skin is softer than silk as his calloused hand strokes up and down her back. She feels so safe in his strong arms. She wishes duty could wait another hour or two.

Her cheeks flush when he pulls back the furs to gaze at her body in the morning light. Her shift is lying on the foot of the bed where she'd discarded it last night. She'd fallen asleep after he’d loved her, the sweet throbbing pleasure he'd shown her still fresh in her mind. He’d asked to see all of her and she’d found it a simple request to grant despite her scars. She’d let him see all of her on the first night they were to be together as man and wife. She prays it will not be the last.

His hand moves to caress her flat tummy and she wonders if he's thinking the same thing. Will she be round with his child or a mother when they next see one another? Or will that be a dream to pursue later on? Assuming the gods allow.

They can hear horses and men stirring in the courtyard below. War awaits. 

He reluctantly rises from their bed. His passionate kiss and whispered words leave her heart aching with a mixture of grief and hope. He bids her not to cry, telling her he cannot bear to leave if she's crying. She won't cry...not till after he's gone.

When he's mastered his own emotions, he gives a rogueish look and says, “When I return, I want to see you in nothing but these furs again, wife.”

"When you return, you will."


	17. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns to Winterfell and his family after his successful attempt to obtain a powerful ally and military alliance for the North.
> 
> Drabble based on the teaser footage of Season 8 with hints of Political Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly fear the reunion between Jon and his younger half-siblings (cousins) could go a bit sideways because GRRM likes to crush us that way but we'll see. Here at least, I'm letting him have a happy and private reunion with them :)

 

Returning home with far more people than he’d left with, Jon climbed down off his horse with an immense sense of relief despite his other concerns to see her waiting in the courtyard with a smile.

There were introductions to be made and old acquaintances to greet but he thought nothing of that as he strode towards her, carefully studying her face, anxious for her opinion but also relishing the opportunity to gaze at her when he’d feared for a time that would never be possible again.

The chill of winter staining her cheeks and brightening her blue eyes only enhanced her Northern beauty.

He’d come home and she opened her arms to welcome him. He walked straight into them, wishing he could just savor this moment. But, the dangerous game continued and now he’d brought it here, a threat to all he held most dear.

“Please trust me,” he whispered as his mouth passed her ear. He hoped she heard him. It was hardly all he wished to say but it would have to do for the moment until they could be alone.

She embraced him and he could tell that she had heard. The sagging sense of relief increased. He was home, no longer forced to keep his own counsel at all times.

Someone coughed and it occurred to him that perhaps he’d been holding her a touch longer than entirely proper.

“They’re waiting for you in the godswood,” she murmured just as he started to release her.

How did she know? He had not been granted a private reunion with her but she had arranged one for him. His little sister and brother, who’d been no more than children when he’d seen them last, he wondered if they were as changed as he was.

As if she’d read his mind, she whispered, “You will find them altered from the children you recall but their love for you remains.”

He took comfort in her assurance, just as he found it in seeing her well. He could not allow himself to dwell for too long on how much he’d longed to hold her in his arms once more. There were guests in Winterfell, ones who’d require careful attention from them both.

“Introduce me and then slip away when you can.”

He felt her squeeze his hand as he turned to do her bidding.

They had not always understood one another but so much had changed since those childhood days. Would she understand why he was doing the things he was? Or that all of it had been for her sake and for theirs?

The guests were being shown indoors with promises of warmth, bread and salt. Jon quietly turned away from them and made his way to the godswood where Arya and Bran waited.  But before he entered the godswood, he looked back at Sansa...and found her looking back at him.

 


	18. The Sun and Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya goes to check on Sansa before her third wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself I was taking a posting break while I work on my WIPs but this idea has been with me for a while so have a little Stark sisterly bonding today from Arya's point of view :)

 

The hour was growing late and the handful of witnesses had just left the Great Hall for the godswood. She slipped into their parents’ former chambers to find her sister humming quietly to herself and arranging her hair in front of the mirror. She wondered how much time Sansa had spent on it. It shone like burnished copper and was piled high upon her head with a few tendrils hanging loose.

Once upon a time, Arya might’ve rolled her eyes and said something cutting about her sister’s incessant grooming but the time for childish squabbles had ended and she thought Sansa might need her tonight.

It wasn’t till Sansa laid down her brush at last that she realized she’d joined her. “You’re quiet as a mouse. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Arya smirked. “No one would.”

“Did you need anything?” her sister asked next.  Once she might’ve asked it petulantly as if she wanted nothing less than her little sister’s presence. Now, she smiled when she asked.

“I don’t need anything. I came to see if you did.”

“Oh.”

Sansa’s mouth remained open as if she meant to say more but no sound came. She stood and fussed with the skirts of her gown instead. She was tall and regal looking in the beautiful blue gown with white trim.

“That’s very pretty. How long did it take you to make it?” _Whenever did you find the time?_

“Thank you. It took many nights of sitting up late once other work was done. I’d hoped I might finish it in time and I did.”

“I think he’ll like it.”

“Do you really think so?” Sansa asked, filled with a wistful brand of innocent hope Arya had not heard from her sister in years.

Arya bit her lip to keep from laughing. Jon would like her in anything. He’d probably like her out of it even better based on the looks he gave her when he thought no one else was paying attention. Someone had been paying attention though. Her brother was in love with her sister. It was rather strange and she tried not to think of all the implications of what that meant but she could hardly say it now, could she? Well, she could but that wouldn’t be very ladylike. She was resolved to be as ladylike as possible for Sansa tonight anyway.

“He will.”

“Thank you, Arya.”

“Sansa? Are you sure about this? About marrying him?”

She had to ask. She knew why it made sense and what her sister was doing for him by offering this solution to the myriad of problems the reveal of his parentage had brought them. Jon appeared to be reconciled to the idea but what of Sansa’s heart? She’d thought she understood it well enough but was her sister merely giving herself in marriage to another man she didn’t love for the sake of what was best for everyone else? Would she ever be happy as Jon’s wife?

She needn’t have worried.

“I’ve never been surer,” Sansa answered, her voice soft with a tender warmth but also a longing that wasn't remotely sisterly.  Maybe Arya could never think of him that way but it seemed Sansa could.  It was clear to any with eyes to see. “He’ll be good to me and I’ll be good to him. You’ll see.”

A knock at the door kept her from saying more and Arya answered to find her cousin who would forever be her brother but never again Sansa’s standing there looking quite nervous as he fiddled with his cloak.

He smiled at her briefly before his head tilted to the side as he attempted to catch a glimpse of his bride. Arya gave him a shove.

_“Oof!_ What was that for?!”

“For trying to see my sister in her gown before you wed!”

“I only meant to check on her and…”

_“I’m_ checking on her! Go on and wait for her in the godswood,” she said shooing him back. “We’ll see you soon enough.”

She closed the door in his face and started grinning when she heard him chuckling on the other side. She turned back to find Sansa covering her mouth, suppressing very girlish sounding giggles.

“Shall we walk together to the godswood, my lady?” Arya asked next as proper as any fine lady might and offering her arm. She could play this part today for her sister.

Sansa eagerly linked arms with her and nodded. “Yes. Nothing would please me more, sister.”

 


End file.
